


Christmas at the Pendragon Institute (A Holiday 3-Shot)

by ForzaDelDestino



Series: The Pendragon Institute [3]
Category: Merlin (TV), Merlin (TV) RPF, Merlin - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Present Day AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:35:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26355835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForzaDelDestino/pseuds/ForzaDelDestino
Summary: The third fic in the Pendragon Institute series, a 3-shot holiday follow-up to "Inside the Pendragon Institute" and "Outside the Pendragon Institute." The staff of the museum celebrates the end of the year. Morgana's mysterious, Uther looms on the horizon, Mordred approaches puberty, and visions of commitment are dancing in Arthur's head.
Relationships: Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: The Pendragon Institute [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/327719
Comments: 11
Kudos: 29





	1. Of Business Trips, Staff Meetings, Hats, and Uther Pendragon

"I won't wear it," said Merlin Emrys, folding his arms adamantly. "I won't."

Arthur Pendragon, Assistant Director of the Pendragon Institute of Medieval and Renaissance Art, was dangling a crimson felt hat, decked with a green ribbon and a cascade of feathers, in front of his face, but Merlin felt that even the approaching holidays were no reason to deck oneself out in anything so absurd-looking.

"You can't be serious."

"It's just for the holiday staff party," Arthur said in tones of infinite patience, trying to sound coaxing, and waving the hat to and fro. "Look, Morgana says she's going to come as the evil Snow Queen, and Gwen and Will are wearing those silly elf caps. Lance has a set of fake reindeer antlers. And everybody's trying to get Gaius to dress up as Father Christmas."

"And what sort of headgear will you be sporting, then?" Merlin asked, drumming his fingers on his worktable and wearing his most blatant _Arthur-is-a-prat_ expression. But the Assistant Director could see that he was also trying his hardest to suppress a smile of amusement.

"A crown of course," replied Arthur loftily. "What else would you expect? Well, you needn't look at me like that. It was Geoffrey Monmouth's idea."

He sought to deflect the blame onto the Institute's ancient and beloved librarian, but Merlin wasn't buying it.

"And what's Geoffrey going to be?" asked Merlin. "The Yule log?"

It had been a busy day, and Arthur, like everybody else at the Institute, was tired and not in the best of moods. So he directed a level blue stare in Merlin's direction and prepared to launch into a lecture about his junior conservator's insolence and total lack of respect for him, and how he had a series of punishments planned, to be carried out over the coming weekend.

Except he realized, before opening his mouth, that it would be rather silly of him to berate Merlin on that score. Young Mr Emrys, after all, had been sharing his flat for close to a year and might pretend (on occasion) not to have any respect for him, but obviously harbored feelings that went well beyond respect.

So he simply sighed and lowered the preposterous hat onto the worktable. He and Merlin had made it a habit never to behave towards each other in anything other than a professional manner at work, in spite of the fact that their colleagues (and many others) were aware they were more than simply boss-in-training and employee, senior and junior members of the museum staff. For this reason, he wouldn't even consider yielding to the temptation to press his lips against the corner of Merlin's mouth, where the faintest hint of a dimple lurked.

"I've never had a more disobedient, insubordinate conservator in my entire career," he finally said, his own lower lip quivering with his determination not to give way to laughter. "But you have the right to raise the costume issue at tomorrow's staff meeting. I do agree that some people take this holiday decoration business a bit too far."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The winter holiday season in New York was one of those special times when - in spite of the masses of people, and the crowds in the shops buying last minute presents, and the pickpockets and drug addicts looking to rob shoppers of their wallets, and the lines at the post office, _and_ the unbelievably horrible traffic - the city actually looked festive and in some places even beautiful.

From Central Park all the way to downtown Manhattan, Fifth Avenue was lined with decorated windows, some elaborate and wonderful, some dreadfully kitschy, and wreaths of holly, berries, and glass ornaments seemed to have magically sprouted above the many shop entrances. At night the street was a blaze of light; even the lamp posts were decorated. The old, venerable department stores displayed mechanical holiday scenes, complete with moving figures, in _their_ windows, and people queued for half an hour to see them. Not to be outdone, the city's museums ornamented their entrance halls and facades with a vengeance, and with the multiculturalism of the city in mind. The Metropolitan Museum had holly and ivy in the huge stone urns in their main hall, and their annual Christmas tree, set up as always in the medieval galleries, ornamented with eighteenth-century Neapolitan Baroque angels and cherubs and candles, above a detailed crèche of the same origin. A handsome eighteenth-century Hanukkah menorah was installed in a gallery nearby. At the Museum of Natural History, two huge dinosaurs decorated with pine boughs, colored lights and holiday wreaths appeared on the front steps, a massive tree hung with origami animals stood in one of the halls, and workshops and receptions were held for the celebration of Kwanzaa.

There was a kind of unspoken competition amongst the city's smaller museums. The Frick, the Morgan, the Cooper-Hewitt, the Museum of the City of New York, and the Pendragon Institute generally outdid themselves trying to look as holiday-friendly and tastefully carnivalesque as possible. This year the staff of the Institute, fired up by the spirit of friendly rivalry, had appealed to their London-based Senior Director, Uther Pendragon, for a little extra funding, and as a result the beautifully-ornamented tree in their entrance hall was taller than the tree of the previous December. It glowed satisfactorily with tiny white lights, and swags of pine and holly hung on the walls; more pine branches, interwoven with ivy, decorated the simply carved, twelfth-century altar in the sculpture gallery. Somebody – Arthur suspected Leon, the Head of Security – had suspended a sprig of mistletoe above one of the doorways to the tapestry gallery. Lance and Gwen – being newlyweds – obligingly stopped and kissed beneath it, but nobody else paid it much attention.

Visitors to the museum stopped looking at the art and applauded at the sight of the dark, handsome arms-and-armor curator and the pretty textile conservator snogging away, but Arthur's stepsister Morgana insisted that she would never make such a public spectacle of herself.

"If you keep doing that sort of thing, people are going to start coming here to stare at the good-looking staff, not the sculptures and paintings," she snorted, tossing her mane of dark hair. "It's bad enough that journalists are calling Arthur the 'Sexiest Museum Director Alive.' I mean, honestly! We're a cultural institution, not a paparazzi magnet."

Both Lance and his missus rolled their eyes towards the vaulted ceiling.

As it happened, two weeks earlier both the Assistant Director and Morgana, the senior curator, had returned to the city from brief business trips. Morgana had spent eight days in Sicily, attending first a symposium on medieval fresco painting, and then a tour of Norman castles in Palermo province. Arthur had been closer to home, at a series of meetings with fellow museum directors and administrators in Los Angeles, California. The meetings had lasted three days, followed by two days of museum visits, after which he had felt obligated to spend a little time with old school friends ("A gang of expat Brits, just like us," Morgana said) now living in nearby Corona del Mar. Altogether he had been away for a week, and when he walked through the door of his New York flat, his hands full of luggage and gift parcels, he was in a particularly…needy frame of mind. He had dropped his bags on the floor just inside the entrance, and shouted for Merlin, who emerged from the study and predictably tripped over the nearest suitcase.

"Watch it, you idiot, there are wine bottles in there," were the first words of love out of Arthur's mouth as he pulled Merlin into his arms.

"California wine is available in any New York liquor store," Merlin had mumbled an hour later into the little hollow above Arthur's collarbone. "I don't understand why you had to buy so much of it there."

"Shut up, _Mer_ lin," Arthur replied, loosening his grip on Merlin's short, dark hair. He was sprawled all over their rumpled sheets, blissfully exhausted, his own immaculately cut fair hair a tangled mess, his clothes and luggage strewn across the bedroom floor. "I didn't _buy_ any of it. It was given to me, and I could hardly throw it away."

Merlin had raised his head a little, so that Arthur's eyes rested with sleepy pleasure on his pale, angular face and blue eyes beneath the jagged spikes of fringe, and that full lower lip with the little indentation in the middle. He had missed Merlin terribly – had missed his retorts, wry comments, and impish sense of humor as much as his companionship and his thin, pliant body - during that busy week in LA, but he was damned if he was going to admit to it.

Instead, he had absently tapped the rhythm to some song by Coldplay on Merlin's hipbone and snapped, "I don't suppose there's anything in the kitchen that you could feed me? I'm famished after…after my exertions on your behalf."

This hardly amounted to a declaration of passionate attachment, but Merlin seemed not to notice. At least, he took Arthur's high-handed attitude in stride, as he usually did, and gently disengaged himself from their close embrace, sliding out of bed and stretching, rubbing his eyes with his fists.

"I think there's some leftover grain salad," he mumbled vaguely, hunting about the room for his clothes. "And soup, and some cheese. And a loaf of new bread."

"That'll be fine," Arthur said, pulling back the covers. He stood up almost reluctantly, surveying the contrast between Merlin's milky pallor and his own skin, tanned a becoming pale gold by the southern California sun, and the similarly striking contrast between Merlin's almost fragile slimness and his own athletic build. "We should open one of those bottles of wine to have with it," he muttered, beginning to think less about dinner than about maneuvering his junior conservator back into bed. "But I think it needs to settle after being jostled about in my luggage. We can open it in an hour."

"Needs to settle…what needs to settle?" Merlin said confusedly, only just beginning to look more than halfway awake.

"The wine, idiot," said Arthur, getting back into bed and drawing Merlin down with him.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The very next day, Morgana had made her triumphant return from Sicily. She had taken her young half brother, Mordred, with her, insisting that the experience would more than make up for his missing a week of school. As usual when coming back to the Institute after a business trip, she brought small gifts for everybody, which she distributed during lunch break. Lance and Gwen received a beautifully painted ceramic dish; most of the others were given candied lemon or orange peel, or Sicilian nougat. (Gaius, head of the Conservation department, protested that the chewy nougat sweets would rid him of what remained of his natural teeth, so Will, the objects conservator, promptly pocketed most of them.) Leon was handed a bottle of potent Sicilian _grappa_. ("She gave _him_ the best present, naturally," grumbled Arthur.) After rummaging in her shoulder bag, Morgana had finally presented Arthur with a large ball of soap on a rope, and her stepbrother looked at her askance.

"I don't suppose this is meant to be some sort of hint," he said acidly, balancing the yellow globe in one hand.

"Don't be silly, Arthur," Morgana had replied, looking down her elegant, aristocratic nose. "It's a popular souvenir in Palermo. It's full of Sicilian lemon oil, and I thought it had a very manly scent."

"I notice you didn't give one to Merlin," Arthur murmured.

"What would be the point?" was the prompt response. "You'll be sharing yours with him anyway."

She had then marched away, looking unendurably smug. Now _, two weeks later_ , she was still looking smug, and it was obvious that she knew something nobody else did. But she was remarkably tight-lipped and even Leon, her cavalier (as Arthur put it), had no inkling of what she was so pleased about.

"I've known her all my life," Arthur muttered to Lance and Will as they convened in his office for the first December staff meeting. "And I ought to be used to her by now. How could she do this to us?"

"Perhaps she's gone over to The Dark Side," Will suggested, not too quietly. "And she's going to defect to one of the huge, monster institutions like the Louvre, or the British Museum, or the Metropolitan."

"Or she's planning some sort of family coup, and is going to seize the reins of power from Uther, bypass _you_ , Arthur, and set herself up as Senior Director of the Institute," Lance said, also more loudly than was necessary.

Morgana glared at the three of them from the other side of the room, and began holding forth about the arrant stupidity of the male gender. At the close of the meeting (which went smoothly, despite Merlin's half-hearted complaints on the subject of the hat), she approached the Assistant Director with a Cheshire Cat smile and asked him why he was looking so cross, especially when things at the Institute were going so well.

"We've gotten a grant for another special exhibition, the new museum guidebook is on its way to the printers, and we're operating in the black, unlike some other small museums I could name," she said primly. "There's no reason for you to look grim, stepbrother dear. Now, I'm off to read Leon's reports on new security measures for the tapestry gallery."

She looked like the proverbial cat who had eaten the canary, or like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, but Arthur had received an email from Uther that very morning, and therefore had ammunition to spare.

"Before you rush off to commune with lover boy Leon," he said smoothly. "I don't suppose you've heard that Father and your mum are coming to New York for Christmas."

The senior curator's eyes widened and her crimson lips opened, shut, and then tightened into a thin line.

"I'll be delighted to see Mum," she said abruptly. "And I'm sure she's dying to spend time with Mordred."

Mordred, her extremely precocious little half brother, had been moved from London to New York at the end of the summer, to live with his older sister. He seemed to be quite happy living in Manhattan (although he was such a poker-faced child that it was difficult to tell when he was happy or not), was pleased with his school (even though, as in London, he was light-years ahead of his classmates, academically), and enjoyed spending after-school hours with his half siblings at the Institute. Elaine, his mother, rang him up from London every night to chat, and she had flown to New York several times to visit him, but both Arthur and Morgana were certain that Mordred wouldn't want to spend the winter holidays without her.

"Her original plan, as you well know, was for all of us to go to London for Christmas," Arthur sighed. "She had plans for a family reunion of sorts, with Cousin Galahad and the gods know who else. But renovation work on the house isn't finished, Galahad's swanned off to Scotland to spend the holidays with his girlfriend's family, and most of the country's been hit with a snowstorm. So, if they can get a flight out, she and Father want to come _here_."

"Bloody hell," Morgana said under her breath. "Where are they going to stay? Not with you?"

"Not with me," Arthur answered shortly. "They're booking a room at the Pierre."

It did him good to watch his stepsister's expression become considerably less smug than it had been for weeks, and he knew that she would spend most of her stepfather's visit doing battle with him, but he himself was not thrilled at the prospect of Uther Pendragon's arrival. He had refrained from mentioning it at the staff meeting, wanting to tell Morgana first, but now he would have to send an interoffice email all round the building, to inform his colleagues – including Merlin - that the Senior Director would be in town for the duration of the holiday.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

That evening, most of the senior staff repaired to The Griffin to indulge in some liquid form of holiday cheer, and raise their deflated spirits after reading Arthur's all-points email.

The Griffin's main room, with its handsomely appointed bar, round wooden tables, flowers in huge glass vases, and wood-paneled walls, was as elegant as that of any Upper East Side pub. It was also quite warm, but Gaius noticed that Merlin was sniffling and told him to put on his jacket.

"I _told_ you to get a flu shot," said Arthur with lordly condescension.

"I _did_ get one. Last week," replied Merlin, looking in his jacket pocket for a handkerchief or tissues. "I think I'm allergic to the flowers." He gestured in the direction of The Griffin's vases, which were loaded with exotic-looking blossoms and what looked like some sort of ivy.

"I hope you're not going to pretend to be ill, so you can avoid Father when he makes his appearance," Arthur said under his breath, smiling. Merlin rolled his eyes.

"Cheers, mate," somebody said behind them, and they turned to find Lance's good friend Gwaine, waving a pint of Guinness at them from the bar. He was smiling at all of them, but he appeared to have been speaking to Merlin, and as they watched, he lifted his heavy glass in a brief salute.

Arthur grinned back at him, although he did wish – as he had before – that Gwaine would stop flirting quite so openly with Merlin. Of course it wasn't only Merlin he flirted with. Gwaine had a tendency to make eyes at anybody, female or male, who didn't fall into the category of geriatric, but such was his devil-may-care charm that even Arthur found him to be entertaining company. Gwaine had been recently hired as a technician by the Metropolitan Museum, and according to Lance, it looked as though he might actually make it through the year without getting sacked for inappropriate behavior.

Lance himself was ensconced at the bar with yet another of the old school chums he frequently brought with him to The Griffin. This evening it was Percival, and after a while they both stood up and strolled over to the table where Arthur was sitting with Merlin, Gaius, and Gwen.

Percival ducked as he passed beneath the brass chandelier, and everybody laughed, Percival just as heartily as the others. He was accustomed to being twitted about his height and a physique that wouldn't have seemed out of place at a Mr Universe contest. To tell the truth, he was a little overwhelming, being, as Morgana put it, _frighteningly_ fit, and he towered over everybody else. Arthur definitely _did not_ like being towered over, but he appreciated Percival's soft-spoken modesty and was good natured about the fact that all of Lance's mates seemed to resemble Roman gladiators or Olympic athletes.

"Where does Lance find these fellows?" he muttered under his breath to Gwen. "Does he belong to some elite gym, or what?"

Gwen shrugged her shoulders histrionically. "I have no idea," she murmured. "But I think you should invite them to the holiday staff party. It might intimidate your dad if he sees such mighty warrior types at your beck and call."

"That's not a bad idea," Arthur replied, half-joking. "Not that I think it'll work. Ask Lance, would you? By the way, do you happen to know what Morgana has up her sleeve? I mean, she usually confides in you. She's been gloating about something, and I'm bug…damned if I know what it is."

"She hasn't told me a thing," Gwen said flatly, glancing first at a group of tipsy young women who were eyeing her husband, and then at the beautiful senior curator, perched on a chair next to Leon at the next table. "But I do believe you're right. Either she's discovered some earth-shatteringly important work of art and wants to take full credit for it, or she's just won an ocean cruise for two…and isn't planning on inviting either of us along."


	2. Of Holiday Arrangements, Family Rows, and Magic Wands

"We're a complicated family," said Arthur conversationally as his eyes ran the length of Morgana's dining table. "Half siblings, step siblings, huge age gaps. It's not surprising people get confused by us."

"It's not so confusing," Gaius murmured, looking from Arthur to Uther, and then to Morgana and Mordred. "But I can say that because I've known all of you for so long. A pity Galahad couldn't join us."

The senior Pendragon and his wife Elaine had flown into Kennedy Airport earlier that day, and had been whisked by hired car to the Hotel Pierre in Manhattan. They had brought enough luggage and parcels with them to put Santa to shame, and the elegantly-wrapped gifts they had withdrawn from the luggage were now reposing beneath Morgana's Christmas tree, where Mordred could eye them assessingly. In an effort to be conciliatory towards the stepfather with whom she was frequently at odds, Morgana had conjured up a lavish dinner for the first night of their visit, and invited her stepbrother, Merlin, and Gaius to share it with them.

"It is confusing," Arthur insisted. "People can't figure us out. Morgana's my stepsister, but Mordred's my half brother. He's Morgana's half brother as well. His family name's Pendragon, hers is LeFay. And did you know that half of the teachers at Mordred's school think Merlin is related to him?"

Uther shot a disapproving look down the table in Merlin's general direction, but he only said, "I see nothing confusing whatsoever. About our family, I mean."

To Merlin, sitting next to Gaius and fiddling with his napkin, the Pendragon family was still confusing, but he was not going to spoil everybody's dinner by saying so out loud. They were all certainly good looking, from the still-robust Senior Director to the thin, dark-haired young Mordred, and although Morgana was not a Pendragon by blood (and had always used her deceased father's surname), it seemed appropriate for her to be as strikingly beautiful as she was. Merlin had no doubt that the absent Cousin Galahad fit the Pendragon mold, and was a fine physical specimen of a man with plenty of hidden insecurities.

He remembered his own very first sight of Arthur, in the Paper Conservation studio of the Institute. How he'd been peeved by the cool arrogance, but somewhat astonished by that beauty. That golden hair above an aristocratic brow, and keen blue eyes, strong nose, sculpted jawline, and oh God, that mouth.

Gaius' elbow nudged him in the ribs, and he blinked, forcing his thoughts back into the present, as Elaine passed him a platter of corn.

"I like corn on the cob better," Mordred announced solemnly. "And I like corn bread, and succotash, and Buffalo wings, and Virginia ham."

"What on earth are Buffalo wings?" asked his mother, sounding mildly horrified. "Buffalo don't have wings, darling."

"Mordred's been converted to American food," Arthur said in explanation, giving his pretty stepmother a reassuring smile. "Morgana says he eats street vendor hot dogs by the dozen, although you wouldn't know it to look at him. As for Buffalo wings, I think they were invented in Buffalo, New York. They're fried chicken wings coated with a cayenne pepper hot sauce, and people eat them with some kind of blue cheese dressing. I wouldn't be surprised if you could find them in London."

Uther made a rather sour face, intended to reflect his opinion of New York cuisine. This was yet another bone of contention between himself and Morgana, who insisted that high-end restaurants in the States could match anything found in London, Paris, or any European or Asian city.

"If you're planning on stopping in at the Institute tomorrow, Uther," Gaius said hastily, with a near-obvious effort to stop any argument between the Senior Director and Morgana before it could start, "I think you'll be pleased with what you find."

"Ah yes, Gaius," boomed the Insitute's Senior Director, effectively diverted from such vexing problems as the quality of American food, his stepdaughter's rebelliousness, and the existence of Merlin Emrys. He smiled jovially at his Head of Conservation. "How are things in your department? Any news?"

Even Gaius, who had known Uther almost forever, found him slightly overpowering at times. "Everything's going quite well," he replied carefully. "We're up to date with all of our projects. Thanks to Gwen, the tapestries are in excellent shape. Will recently finished up work on Lord Moldywa…on that sculpture of an unidentified nobleman. I still think it represents one of the Three Kings. And Merlin's treatment of all of our early manuscripts is superb. You should see what he's done with our Winchester prayer book. We've just put it on exhibit. Everybody agrees that he cleaned the surface beautifully…it's like magic, as usual."

Uther turned his head in Merlin's direction, his expression mildly dubious, but Elaine smiled at him warmly. Sensing Arthur's eyes on him, Merlin stared at his plate and made an effort to look completely at ease. He did not hold grudges, as a general rule, but at that particular moment he found himself wishing that he could magically transform Uther's platter of fillet mignon into a mound of Buffalo wings drenched in super-hot cayenne pepper sauce.

"Yes, yes, all of the museum conservators I've spoken to in London say he has a magic touch, and that they've never seen anything like it," Uther said. To give him credit, he was making an effort to sound friendly, and certainly he had seen evidence of Merlin's expertise, but it was almost impossible for him to convey anything but vague dissatisfaction in his tone of voice and his very posture. Merlin was convinced that if it hadn't been for his superior work, he would have been sacked ages ago.

"Merlin," whispered Arthur. "Stop making bread pills."

"I'll be happy to let you see any of the pieces I've worked on this past month," Merlin said to Uther, schooling himself not to look intimidated. He was able to keep his expression calm and meditative, although he realized, belatedly, that he often allowed his accent to become more pronounced when the Senior Director was present – perhaps because of his nervousness, or perhaps out of an unconscious desire to show Uther that he didn't give a hoot what he thought about him.

"Yes, of course," Uther said, waving one hand in a lordly manner. "After I've seen to the important matters." Both Arthur and Morgana rolled their eyes, and Merlin promptly imagined the Senior Director with a mouth full of cayenne pepper sauce.

"Arthur," whispered Morgana, leaning towards the Assistant Director. "He's going to be impossible at the holiday staff party. Perhaps we could tell everybody to do their best to get him drunk."

"That's not a terrible idea, Morgs," replied Arthur, for once in perfect agreement with his stepsister. "We can lift the house rules ban on hard liquor at parties. And I _have_ invited Lance's mates, you know, Gwaine and Percival. Gwaine's got a talent for talking people into stupefying themselves with drink. At least we can count on your Mum to be lovely; she gets on well with everybody. And we'll have Mordred there for comic relief. Shhhh…don't tell him I said that."

He glanced quickly at his little half brother, who was deep in serious conversation (not particle physics again!) with his junior conservator. Merlin was wearing his red neckscarf (a concession to the Christmas season, as well as a necessary means of hiding last night's evidence of Arthur's occasional tendency to bite - faint blue marks on the pale column of his throat), and all Arthur could think about for a moment was when and how he was going to remove that wretched rag, along with everything else his young colleague happened to be wearing.

"Arthur," Gaius murmured in reproving tones. "I don't think it's really proper for you to be talking about getting your father drunk. Although," he added, musingly, "it might make things much less tense at the party."

"I know," said Arthur, still under his breath. "We'll make him wear one of those funny hats."

Uther, in the meantime, had been grilling Mordred about his school friends. Mordred replied serenely that he didn't know anything about their families, but that he liked them, and that he wanted to have a sleepover party and invite all of his classmates.

Uther gave him a stern look, and appeared to be ready with a lecture. The expression on his face reminded Arthur of the many times, during his own childhood, that Uther had turned that same look on _him_ (accompanied by the words, "I trust you'll make me proud") before he took an exam, or during a football game, moments before he set foot on the pitch. It was this, more than anything else, that tempted him to come to Mordred's defense, but Morgana was already (with a hint of glee at the prospect of contradicting her stepfather) agreeing with Mordred that his idea was a splendid one.

"I don't think…" Uther began pompously, but Morgana interrupted him.

"All of the children do it," she said in a very matter-of-fact voice. "I don't mind hosting a, what's-it-called, slumber party. And Mordred's friends seem very nice."

"Morgana," rumbled Uther in tones that promised an argument before the evening was over.

Merlin saw the corner of Arthur's mouth twitch with sudden amusement and he sighed, putting aside his fantasies of a food fight. Poor Mordred! He supposed that Uther was now planning to vet all of the child's best mates and other schoolfellows. It was likely that he was harboring the same ambitions for his younger son that he had harbored for Arthur, and that he was hoping – at some point in the distant future – to marry Mordred off to some well-connected young woman, preferably one whose family owned land, if not a title. The fact that his admired, professionally successful older son had taken up with a talented young nobody born in Northern Ireland, raised in Ealdor, and of the wrong gender if one hoped to have biological grandchildren, had been a hard pill to swallow…and he still seemed to be having difficulty swallowing it.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

After dinner, Elaine and Morgana removed empty plates and glasses to the kitchen and put them in the dishwasher (Morgana muttering under her breath about the sexist attitudes of lazy males), and they all put on their wraps. The plan was to take Mordred to see the Christmas windows at Lord and Taylor's (the best mechanized window displays of all the shops in the city), and then join the mobs of tourists gawking at the massive Christmas tree in Rockefeller Plaza.

"I'm delighted that you're enjoying New York, darling," Elaine said to Mordred as they trudged down Fifth Avenue en masse, looking for several taxis. "And that you've made such friends."

"I want to go to the movies next weekend," Mordred confided to her in his reedy, serious little voice. "With two girls."

Arthur's mouth nearly fell open, Merlin blinked, and Morgana chuckled under her breath.

As it turned out, Mordred was very much taken with two of his little female classmates, Niniane and Brisen. And he couldn't decide which he liked better. His solution, therefore, was to ask both of them out at once.

Even Elaine was astonished.

"He isn't talking about going on a _date_ , is he?" she asked Morgana with a touch of anxiety. "That is…he's still a baby. Not even twelve yet."

"And it's hardly a date," Arthur murmured, "if there are _two_ girls."

"Perhaps he's exhibiting early signs of the fabled Pendragon libido," Morgana replied.

"Very funny!" snapped Arthur, frowning. "Stop sniggering, Merlin."

"He also has a crush on Gwen," said Morgana. "He loves to watch her work."

"Right," snorted Arthur, grinning. "Tell Lance he has a rival."

Fortunately, Uther had overheard none of this, and before long conversation turned to whether or not museums should devote so much money to holiday decorations, and Arthur and Morgana fell to squabbling (quietly) about who was going to have to go to dinner with Uther the following night.

"I was thinking of buying a copy of the Social Register for Uther, for Christmas," Merlin joked to Morgana, looking about to make certain that the Senior Director was out of hearing range.

"He probably has one already," Morgana whispered back. "Oh! And by the way...Mum's knitted you a sweater."

"Well, well," said Arthur, who had caught the last part of Morgana's statement. "That means you're really part of the family now. Elaine knits sweaters for every member of the family, every year. You know, a bit like _Harry Potter_ 's Mrs Weasley."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Sounds as though it was quite an evening," Lance said.

He, Arthur, and Gaius were sitting in the Staff Lounge, knocking back scalding coffee in an attempt to re-charge their brain cells. Morgana and Gwen were at the other end of the room, peering at the spare laptop staff members were allowed to use for watching DVDs during luch break.

"We took them all to see the Christmas sights," Arthur sighed, refilling his mug. "Mordred and Elaine had fun, and Father was critical of almost everything he saw. Some of the windows were nice, if you like that sort of thing. "

"Didn't it remind you of your childhood Christmases in London?" Lance asked.

"No," Arthur said flatly.

"I think everybody had a lovely time," Gaius murmured. "And I'm sure Uther was only cross because of jet lag."

"Incidentally," Lance half-whispered, glancing over at Morgana and then returning his gaze to the Assistant Director. "Did you know that Morgs was seen having lunch over at the Metropolitan Museum last Tuesday..."

"She often has lunch in their staff cafeteria," Arthur said resignedly. "We don't have one, theirs is massive, and it's only three blocks away."

"...with Morgause," Lance concluded, lowering his voice even more dramatically.

"You're joking," said Arthur, and Gaius' eyebrows came close to disappearing into his silver hairline at the mention of the curator from the Met's medieval art department.

" _Something's_ going on," the Assistant Director continued, frowning. "I know they used to be friends, but...after that, er, incident with Valiant, I thought Morgana began avoiding her whenever she could get away with it. You don't suppose this has something to do with why my charming stepsister's been so unbearably smug and secretive lately?"

There was a burst of laughter from across the room. The three men turned to see their senior curator and textiles conservator giggling madly at whatever was on the laptop screen.

"Good lord," Lance said, craning his neck to see what they were watching. "They've got an old DVD of 'Lady Chatterley's Lover.' The BBC miniseries version from the 1990s, with Joely Richardson and Sean Bean."

"Ah, I _do_ remember that one," Gaius said cheerfully, and Arthur and Lance exchanged looks of mild surprise. "Not X-rated, exactly, but rather, well..."

"Gwen will say that she and Morgana are simply enjoying a visual interpretation of a classic of literature," Lance said with an ironic grin.

"That's utter crap, not to put too fine a point on it," Arthur snorted. "Those ladies just like to see the actors naked. I don't believe they've even read the book."

"Yes they have," Lance said, snorting in his turn. He stood up and strolled slowly and nonchalantly past his two female colleagues before returning to his chair. "They're sniggering over those nicknames Lady C and whatsisname, the gamekeeper, gave their privates. I don't know if _that's_ in the movie."

"Lady Jane and John Thomas, wasn't it?" Arthur muttered. He eyed his giggling stepsister and textile conservator with a touch of masculine disdain.

"You'd almost think they'd been drinking whilst at work," his arms and armor curator continued, looking embarrassed. "They're coming up with, uh, pet names for the rest of the staff's, uh...staffs."

" _No_ ," Arthur said, appalled; Gaius simply looked down his nose and sighed with the weary condescension of the elderly.

"They just called mine, er, me, 'Lance-a-lot," Lance said, flushing slightly. "And of course you know what they called Will's."

"Silly girls," snapped Arthur, hoping that they weren't making up any names for _his_. "How puerile."

He related this exchange to Merlin, after work, when they stopped off at their flat for a breather. They were to meet Uther, Elaine, Morgana, and Mordred for dinner at eight, at a restaurant near Washington Square Park (so that Mordred could see the Christmas tree at the foot of the park's marble arch). As it was only twenty minutes of six, Merlin declared himself in need of a rest and flung himself into bed, and after a few seconds of hesitation (because he knew what he would be tempted to do if he got into bed with his junior conservator), Arthur joined him.

Merlin listened to the description of what his Assistant Director called "our colleagues' utterly _ridiculous_ naming game," and then smiled as sweetly and innocently as if Arthur hadn't shagged him nearly insensible the night before.

"Lance-a-lot?" Arthur muttered with a touch of scorn. "How unoriginal. Those girls have no imagination."

"Oh really?" said Merlin doubtfully. "And what would you call your…?"

"Excalibur, of course," Arthur replied smugly. "I think it's only appropriate to name it after a mighty weapon."

"Oh, right," Merlin said, frowning, with a hint of sarcasm. "Some great heavy blade of steel or whatever, that's pulled out of a lake, or a stone, by this prat of a young king. Something that can whack monsters' heads off, slice and dice evil knights, defeat bad rulers and their armies, and bring a kingdom to its knees."

"Well, it can certainly bring you to yours," Arthur said.

Merlin gave him a reproachful look. "Erm," he mumbled, and went very red. "Modesty's never been one of your strong points."

"And what name would you bestow upon your endowment, oh great magician of the conservation studio?" Arthur persisted, propping himself up on one elbow.

Merlin shrugged. "I don't need to give it a name," he answered calmly. "It's my magic wand. And don't say that it doesn't work, because I've proved otherwise."

"Ah," said Arthur, consideringly.

"What's that supposed to mean, _ah_?" Merlin said defensively. "I suppose you'll be telling me to prove it again."

"Why?" murmured Arthur, grinning. "What are you going to do to me?"

Merlin rolled his eyes.

"Be my guest," said his Assistant Director, flopping back onto the bed and folding his arms behind his head. "Come on. Come _on_."

"What?" said Merlin blankly.

"Prove it _now_ ," Arthur rapped out, still smiling. "I'm a very fair judge, as you know."

" _Arthur!_ " babbled Merlin, sitting up, a little shocked. "We're meant to be at the restaurant in less than two hours!"

"As I thought," Arthur said, raising both eyebrows. "All talk and no action. Very well, we _argh_!" He had begun to swing his legs over the side of the bed when Merlin tackled him, knocking him flat and then rolling on top. It was absurd, because it would have been easy for Arthur to roll him back over and render him helpless, but it very quickly stopped being absurd and became really, well, spectacular. Within less than ten minutes they were panting for breath and Merlin was gripping Arthur's hips, whilst Arthur's hand was in Merlin's spiky mop of hair as he gasped, " _Yes_ , Merlin, yes," and arched upward, trying to hold out for just a few moments longer, because Merlin really _did_ have talents nobody else at the Institute was aware of.

Afterwards, they lay in a very tangled heap until Arthur rolled over onto his side, dislodging Merlin and then running the tips of his fingers lightly along the length of his creamy throat and the silky skin over his collarbones. He watched as Merlin's eyelids fluttered open, and admired the clear, changeable blue of his irises.

" _Mine_ ," Arthur murmured, intently and possessively. It was what he usually said (before, during, or after), and his young conservator had become quite accustomed to it.

"We're going to be late," Merlin said huskily, swallowing hard as Arthur's finger skimmed the length of his slender nose and then traced the curving outline of his upper lip.

"No, we won't," Arthur answered after one last, ferocious kiss, sitting up and pushing his blond hair back from his forehead. "Get dressed, Merlin. I'm calling a cab. Do you remember the address of that bloody restaurant?"


	3. Of Paparazzi, Mosaics, and a Love Story

" _What_ is going on with Morgana?" Arthur asked himself out loud and, not surprisingly, this elicited a response from Merlin, who was just down the hall in the study.

"What's going on with whom?" he asked, peering into the sitting room where Arthur was perched on the window seat, newspaper in hand. He had showered earlier and his hair was still wet, sticking up on top of his head, and he was wearing a plain white tee shirt and a pair of narrow-cut jeans that had seen better days. His eyes were bright and alert in his piquant, narrow face, but the corners of his mouth were quivering with the vestiges of a yawn.

"I wasn't really talking to _you_ ," Arthur replied in his snootiest voice, but grinning, and Merlin gave his usual eye roll before disappearing back into the study. Arthur could hear the steady clicking of a computer keyboard and reasoned that Merlin had gone back to his research.

They had been together for over a year, and now, at a stage where most lovers begin to take one another for granted, Arthur was as riveted by Merlin's personality, quirky intelligence, and odd, waiflike beauty as he had been since the day they met in the Paper Conservation studio. Likewise, the sex was as remarkable, intense, and addictive as it had been from the very first time they had had it. It had become, if anything, even more exciting because of Arthur's increasingly democratic attitude about letting Merlin do to him whatever he did to Merlin. No matter who was doing what to whom, or who was on top, or who initiated which thing, it was never anything less than, er, mind-blowingly satisfying. Of course, Arthur still tended towards dominance, whereas Merlin (although perfectly capable of sexual assertiveness) was often selfless and deliciously yielding in bed, but there was no question that the playing field (if that was the right term) had been leveled considerably in that department.

Even the things about Merlin that many might have found frustrating – his remarkable awkwardness outside of the Conservation studio, which contrasted with his remarkable precision whilst inside it, his occasional cluelessness, and his reluctance to talk about himself – had become endearing as far as Arthur was concerned. Merlin was as appealing when he was bumping into furniture, walking into people's offices without knocking, or arriving at staff meetings five minutes late as he was when he was lying in Arthur's arms, his head thrown back and eyes closed, lips parted. Arthur loved the rapt expression on Merlin's face at such moments, and the way his eyelashes fluttered when Arthur kissed him.

For the past two or three days Merlin had been ever so slightly on edge. Not so much that anybody else would notice, but Arthur was slowly but surely learning how to read the nuances of Merlin's body language. The Institute's junior conservator was always faintly skittish when Uther was around, and for that reason Arthur had been unusually gentle with him the night before, handling him with as much delicacy as he would a month-old kitten. Merlin must have sensed his concern, because he had responded with a passionate gratitude that had left them both breathless.

Arthur shifted a little on the window seat and returned his attention to the newspaper in his hand. There, on the first page of the arts section, was a photograph of several museum professionals standing about on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum. In the crowd amongst them he recognized a local politician and an actor and actress from a television series (doubtless the reason for all the press photographers and freelance paparazzi crowding the museum steps). In the center of the group, cool, steely-eyed, and easily identifiable by her signature cascade of wavy blonde hair, was one of Arthur's least favorite curators of medieval art, Dr Morgause Lothian of the Metropolitan. Standing next to her, flashing a million dollar smile and sporting an elegant Prada suit, was Morgana. The caption beneath the photograph read: "Curators at the Metropolitan Museum host a luncheon for friends, benefactors, colleagues, and potential employees."

Just _what_ was Morgana up to?

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

In spite of the genuine misgivings of both the Assistant Director and the senior curator, the Institute's holiday staff party – which was held several days before Christmas – started on a very positive note. Because it was a week night, and because the entire staff was invited, it began at six and was slated to end promptly at half past nine. Giving in to the pleading of his younger colleagues, Gaius actually donned a Father Christmas robe, although he removed the false beard about a half hour into the event. Gwen, Will, and several other members of staff, including a few of the security guards, wore silly elf hats made of felt. Leon wore a silvery plastic helmet and Lance bravely crowned himself with a set of fake reindeer antlers, shrugging off the inevitable "horny" jokes.

Uther, to everybody's amazement, arrived in a crimson cape, with a gold-colored circlet around his head. ("How did Elaine talk him into that?" Arthur asked Morgana. "Mum has her ways," was the cryptic reply.) Mordred wore a hooded cape and a vaguely medieval-looking tunic over his jeans, and was oohed and aahed over by all of the ladies present. Arthur wore a gold circlet similar to Uther's ("What? No Ray-Bans?" quipped Merlin), but no other costume, insisting that his loose fitting linen shirt was close to medieval or Renaissance garb in design, at least. Merlin wore the dreaded feathered hat, balanced precariously on his unruly dark hair, and his expression of exasperation and frustrated patience made most of his colleagues laugh even more than the hat did.

As promised, Lance had invited both Gwaine and Percival, who entered into the spirit of the party by proceeding to get joyously hammered. Even the tallest and most muscular of the Institute's security guards eyed the physically imposing Percival with respect, the more so when they found he could drink them all under the table. As for Gwaine, fortunately he was as charming when he was drunk as when he was sober, and he stationed himself next to Uther, suggesting that they match each other drink for drink. Uther declined to play any such game, but he clearly found Gwaine amiable and entertaining (as everybody did), and within a short period of time had allowed Lance's friend to ply him with enough alcohol to make him laugh at the silliest jokes and affect his ability to walk a straight line. ("Now we'll have to get him into a taxi," Elaine sighed.) This caused everybody at the party to relax, and Morgana – dressed as the evil Snow Queen with a crown and scepter of make-believe icicles – was able to exchange meaningful looks and smiles with Leon, from whom (because of Uther's presence) she had been keeping a discreet distance.

"Well _done_ , mate," Arthur murmured as he passed Gwaine on his way to the heavily-laden buffet table, and Gwaine gave him a cheerful thumbs up in reply.

Mordred wasn't allowed anything stronger than ginger beer, but he seemed happy to sit near Gwen and listen to her account of recent textile conservation projects. His mother and half sister smiled to see the admiration and infatuation in the pale blue eyes of the youngest Pendragon, but they refrained from teasing him, knowing Mordred's tendency to take things a bit too seriously.

"How amazing to think that Mordred has three crushes at once," Morgana whispered. "Let's hope he doesn't grow up to be a promiscuous sort like Arthur."

"I am not and never have been promiscuous," growled Arthur as he walked past her. "I may have gone out with a number of people, but it was always one at a time."

"A _number_ ," said Morgana, opening her eyes wide. "That's the understatement of the year."

"I hope you're not implying," her stepbrother said between his teeth, "that I've been, uh, unfaithful to…to anybody in my…" His voice trailed off but his glance, when she met it, was chilly.

Morgana held his cool blue gaze and then her eyes fell. "No," she said quietly. "No, I can't say that you have." Moments later, having regained her air of almost cheeky self-confidence, she said, smiling, "I have a little announcement to make tomorrow, Arthur. D'you think the senior staff could meet in your office before lunch? I don't mind if Uther is there either."

Arthur looked questioningly in Leon's direction, but the Head of Security shrugged his shoulders and mimed total ignorance.

"What _do_ you suppose she could be up to?" Arthur mumbled later that night into Merlin's ear.

"I have no idea," Merlin replied drowsily. He was lying in the crook of Arthur's arm, tucked snugly under the duvet. "But if I were you, I wouldn't ask her about it."

"Really?" Arthur asked. His teeth fastened softly on the lobe of Merlin's ear. "Why not?"

"It's obvious that she's going to surprise us with _something_ ," Merlin replied, squirming. "Don't spoil it. She'd be livid. Never try to thwart the wicked Snow Queen. Speaking of which, that was a good party. I feel sorry for the cleaning staff tomorrow morning. Have you got all of your presents wrapped, then?"

"No," said Arthur, nibbling. "But I'm certain you have."

"I did most of it yesterday," replied Merlin. "In between typing up condition reports. Are you going to – _oh!_ – ask me to help you wrap yours?"

"I've got my hand wrapped round something else at the moment," Arthur said decisively. "Pay attention, Merlin, and stop thinking about presents."

"Bloody wanker," said Merlin with the ghost of a smile.

Some time before midnight, Arthur made a mental note to himself not to forget Merlin's Christmas gift, and sighed with contentment as he felt Merlin nuzzling his neck sleepily, curling closer for warmth.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The next day, in Arthur's office, Morgana dropped her bombshell.

There were actually two bombshells. Once the senior staff, including the visiting Senior Director, had assembled, she drew a folder of photographs out her shoulder bag and held the pictures up one by one.

"It's a late twelfth or thirteenth century mosaic," Morgana announced. "Originally from a cathedral in Palermo, Sicily. Some Italian scholars have been studying it, and they believe it depicts figures from Arthurian legend."

Her audience drew its collective breath. The photos showed a portion of a mosaic panel, definitely medieval, brilliant with color, mounted in a museum display case. The image depicted in the mosaic was of seven standing figures: three richly clad women in the center, flanked by two male figures on either side. One of the males wore a suit of armor, and another was a very slim youth with dark hair, his face in three-quarter view. The staff recognized the group of figures instantly.

"Except for stylistic differences, and differences in color," Arthur said after a moment. "The composition's identical to the composition of our Courtier's Tapestry. The one we got from, er, Cornelius Sigan last summer."

There was no question that the figures in the Institute's recently acquired tapestry were nearly identical in pose and placement to the figures in the mosaic. Given that the tapestry was centuries later in date, it was certain that they used a common model, or that the image in the later piece was derived in some way from the earlier one.

"An Arthurian image," said Gwen. "In twelfth or thirteenth century Sicily."

"That's not particularly surprising," said Uther, who looked surprised nevertheless. "The Normans took all of those legends with them when they invaded Southern Italy."

"Yes, busy chaps, those Normans," Arthur muttered. "That's why the Sicilians used to believe that King Arthur sleeps beneath Mount Etna, rather than in Avalon, awaiting the moment when he will return to the world of men. Not," he added, frowning, "that Mount Etna should be the most comfortable resting place, even for a mythic hero. Whom does this mosaic belong to, anyway?"

"Oh, that collector in Palermo," Morgana answered. "Giancarlo Schiavone. You've met him and his ex-wife. He mentioned you. With admiration, I might add. Not all of which was professional admiration."

For the life of him, Arthur could not recall any such person, and could only hope that he hadn't flirted with Signor Schiavone (or his ex-wife) at some museum reception or similar event.

"Well," said Morgana to the room at large and almost dancing with glee. "A comparison of this mosaic and our tapestry will make an _excellent_ article, which I plan to write for the next museum Bulletin. But to get on with the rest of my news, I've been asked to join the staff of the medieval department at the Metropolitan Museum. They believe they could use some new blood."

There was a very loaded pause, and the senior curator appeared thoroughly delighted with the impact of her announcement.

"Of course I turned them down," she continued coolly, watching the faces of her audience go from pale to flushed and then to pale again. "I told them I'm perfectly happy where I am, thanks very much. I must admit I've been enjoying their efforts to woo me. Morgause must have spent a fortune wining and dining me this past month."

" _Morgana_ ," Arthur began, and then found that he didn't know what he wanted to say next.

"That's splendid," Uther said faintly, but Morgana hadn't finished speaking.

" _And_ ," she continued, clearly relishing the expressions of astonishment on the faces of her colleagues, "Vanity Fair is doing a story on me for their April issue."

"They did a story on the Pendragon Institute last winter," Arthur objected.

"This isn't about the _Institute_ ," Morgana said briskly. "It's going to be about me. I've spoken with one of their editors and they believe I'll make a great subject for an article. With lots of photos. It seems they think I'm photogenic. Now Arthur, don't be jealous."

"Jealous?" replied Arthur sardonically.

"You're not the only looker in this museum," she added, smiling sweetly. "So stop gnashing your pointy teeth."

"I do not gnash my teeth," Arthur said. "But if you don't stop sneering at me, I think you're going to lose some." He was joking, naturally, and his tone of voice was teasing, but he knew this would get a rise out of his stepsister anyway.

"Arthur, really!" muttered Uther sharply, under his breath.

"Sorry, Father," his son whispered back. "But she always knows which buttons to push."

Morgana's cheeks had gone pink with annoyance. The rest of the Institute staff was staring at this family tableau with wide eyes and open mouths. Finally Gaius cleared his throat loudly, and then coughed, startling everybody into a semblance of normalcy.

"Well, Morgana," Arthur said rather mildly. "So all of this explains why you've been grinning like a Cheshire Cat since Sicily. And why you've been hobnobbing with Morgause in front of the press cameras. Very impressive. I hope you publish your essay about the tapestry and fresco figures before Vanity Fair comes out with its article about _you_. Otherwise everybody in the museum community will think you're just another pretty face on the lookout for her fifteen minutes of fame."

The impromptu staff meeting broke up several minutes later, each person wandering off towards his or her office. Uther, looking remarkably cheerful, strolled away with Gaius. Morgana remained next to Arthur's desk, and when everybody else had gone – but for Merlin, who was still gathering his things together – she turned to her stepbrother with a longsuffering grimace.

"It seems that's made Uther happy with me," she said, wrinkling her nose. "Now perhaps he'll stop pestering me about my personal life for a while."

"Perhaps," said Arthur dryly.

"I didn't mention it, as nothing's been made definite," she continued. "But Giancarlo is willing to lend us that mosaic, if we want to display it next to the tapestry. He even said he'd cover the costs of packing, shipping, and insurance, which is usually the museum's responsibility."

"Good God," said her stepbrother. "He must want some publicity, then. Where on earth does his fortune come from?"

"He runs a company that makes organic products for bed and bath," Morgana replied airily as she reached for her notes. "La Bella Vita."

"Oh," muttered Arthur, and said nothing further. Morgana picked up her folder of photographs and strode from the office, her stiletto heels clacking smartly on the polished wood floor.

"La Bella Vita?" Merlin asked. "I've never heard of it."

Arthur studied the molded designs on the ceiling of his office with a deliberately casual air. "Oh, they make, er, bedroom and bathroom products for men and women. You know, shower and hair gels, shaving soap, moisturizers, and, you know, um, lubricants and the like."

"Oh," Merlin said after a moment. "They'd be pleased to know that we're keeping them in business, then."

He vanished out the door before Arthur could throw something at him.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

By five o'clock, Arthur felt mentally drained and physically exhausted, but he realized that, in spite of the effort he had made to get his holiday shopping finished, he had left the most important thing for last.

Buying a Christmas gift for Merlin was not easy. (In addition, Arthur had to bear in mind that Merlin's birthday followed Christmas by a week; he would be reaching the grand old age of a quarter of a century.) He knew that Merlin liked to read and was a born researcher, so he went to the closest Barnes and Noble and purchased a gift certificate. This item seemed rather mundane and impersonal, however, so he cudgeled his brain for what to get as an additional present.

A half hour later, he walked into an expensive shop on Madison Avenue and plunked down several hundred dollars for a man's bracelet comprised of a slim black leather cord wrapped, in several places, in bands of sterling silver. It was not something he himself would choose to wear, but he thought that Merlin might like it.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I can't believe that I've survived this week intact," groaned Arthur, flinging himself into an armchair and running his hands distractedly through his blond hair.

"It wasn't that bad," Merlin said from the floor, where he was sorting through a pile of art history publications they had been using for research on Sicilian frescoes. "Remind me to wrap those books on medical physics and alternative energy development for Mordred. Not the sort of gifts most children want to find under the Christmas tree."

Arthur coughed a little self-consciously. "You were right to advise me not to ask Morgana what was going on," he said almost reluctantly.

"Oh?"

"You're hopeless at a lot of things, Merlin…but very occasionally, quite by accident, you say something useful," the Institute's Assistant Director continued in the most deliberately pompous voice he could muster.

"Really?" Merlin asked sardonically, peering up at Arthur from beneath his spiky fringe. "How profound, milord."

"In fact…if I didn't know you, I'd be completely fooled into thinking you were…"

"What?"

"…wise."

"No," said Merlin with great fortitude and conviction, and they both laughed.

Arthur watched as Merlin proceeded to gather a pile of books in his arms and stand up, almost staggering under the weight of the heavy folios. It was becoming difficult for him to imagine his flat without his junior conservator; in fact, it didn't bear thinking about. Because even the thought of Merlin, with his flighty bones and his long limbs, his mop of dark hair, unbelievable cheekbones and clear blue eyes, his sense of humor and impossible, contradictory, _infuriating_ habit of refusing to take Arthur seriously at least fifty percent of the time...just the thought of him being with somebody else...

"I don't suppose you'd ever like to marry me, Merlin?" Arthur asked, staring intently at nothing in particular.

There was a dreadful crash as Merlin dropped the heavy volumes onto the floor. Arthur scowled.

"What?" Merlin said faintly, and Arthur's scowl deepened.

"I'm not going to ask you again," he snapped. "It's too bloody embarrassing."

"Did...did you say, erm, ask...?"

"Yes I did," Arthur said, stalking across the room to retrieve the books from the floor. "Stop babbling like an idiot and give me an answer."

Merlin sat down hard on the sofa, looking completely taken aback.

"You're not waiting for me to get down on my knees, are you?" Arthur murmured in a dangerous tone of voice.

"No no no," squeaked Merlin, who appeared to be making a supreme effort to get his brain to function. "Of course not."

"Well, then?" Arthur said, attempting to sound patient, but realizing (and not really caring) that he probably sounded like a prat.

"Your…your father won't have it," Merlin said, standing up again. "It would kill him, or close to it. The tabloid press would probably drag your name through the mud. They'll interview all your ex-lovers, female and male, trying to get some dirt that they could print about you."

"I don't know that they'd find any," Arthur replied calmly. "I'm on perfectly cordial terms with all my ex-lovers."

"Then…then they'll make some up!" Merlin continued. "You know they will. I don't want people to think or speak ill of you!"

"Aren't you worried that people might speak ill of _you_?" Arthur asked curiously.

"I don't care what they say about me," Merlin replied dismissively. "There isn't much they can say about me anyway, I'm not a celebrity. Of course they'd all claim that I'm after you for your money, but I don't care if they say it because I know it's not true. But I won't have them printing lies about you."

In spite of his growing impatience, Arthur found that he was rather touched by that statement.

"And I refuse to be the cause of Uther's massive coronary," Merlin spluttered.

"Oh, Father will come round, eventually," Arthur said, supposing that this might even be true.

"And they haven't passed the Marriage Equality Act, or whatever it's called, in this state yet," Merlin said, backing away as Arthur advanced on him. "We'd have to go to V-Vermont, or Massachusetts, or somewhere it's legal, to do it. There'd be hideous articles in the tabloids, like 'Museum Director's Romantic Wedding Night in Cozy Vermont Inn,' or 'Same-Sex Lovebirds Take Refuge in Love Nest Outside Boston.'" His face had gone paler than usual, and his eyes were wide and a little panic-stricken.

"You're certainly making an effort to find reasons _not_ to do it," said Arthur as he stopped advancing. He looked hard at Merlin, who had sat down again (having backed up against an armchair and realized that he could retreat no further), and then looked away; it seemed obvious that his conservator was not finding the idea of marriage to Arthur Pendragon particularly thrilling.

His hands dropped limply to his sides and he stopped looking fierce. "I'm sorry," he said, and even to himself he sounded alarmingly subdued. "I didn't mean to frighten you. I won't ask again."

He was about to leave the room, feeling confused and humiliated, when suddenly Merlin was on his feet; his hands were on Arthur's shoulders, and rest of him was pressed against the rest of Arthur. He wasn't smiling, and his brows had drawn together, but there was a pink flush on those cheekbones, those impossibly blue eyes were shining, and a moment later his fingers were in Arthur's hair.

"You didn't frighten me, you great stupid…" he said in a voice that shook a little, his accent thickening as he spoke. "I think it's a lunatic idea. Really insane. And the press would have a field day. You know that if you really want me, you can have me. For always. With or without m-marriage. I don't feel the need for a legal tie. But I l-love you, and so of course I'd…if it would make you happy…"

At this point Arthur didn't know whether to feel irritated or ecstatic, exasperated or jubilant. So he settled for amorous, a very reliable feeling when it came to his relations with Merlin, and he leaned in and kissed him as lingeringly, passionately, and vigorously as he was able without passing out for lack of oxygen.

"Are you going to say yes, then, you bloody idiot, or am I going to have to beat an answer out of you?" he finally murmured when he could trust himself to speak. Because he really was not going to put up with any more waffling on Merlin's part.

"I _said_ ," Merlin stammered, and he would have tripped over his own feet if Arthur hadn't been holding him upright, "if it would make you happy…"

**The End**


End file.
